Challenging Poetry

on a lingering and absolutely, completely rational fear

so long ago,
more than half my life,
when my hair could
accidentally get caught in my jeans
and college was still a dream away—

it was spring, and the dog
shed her winter coat
across all floors,
until the carpet was spotted black
and slipped under our bare feet,
and I got out the vacuum.

an upright,
with a grey cord and strong—
so strong. and I passed it across
the floor, leaving clear blue
in my wake, crisscrossed by lines
where the vacuum plowed
furrows for the next crop
of dog hair—
and there was something
on the floor, in my way,
and I reached down,
picked it up, and screamed.

when the vacuum is on,
the suction at full blast,
and the roller caught
on three feet of hair,
there is no way to escape it.
no leverage,
no way to reach around
and find the button (big, so easy to find)
to turn it off,
no way to pull the plug—
my hands were too busy
trying to hold it off.

we have hardwood floors now,
and a tiny robo-vacuum
that bumps into ankles
and turns around—
but still, when I hear it,
I pull my hair back (it’s short—
chin length at most)
and shudder with memory.

I don't like vacuum cleaners. They scare me. I get a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach when I hear one working. I pull up my feet when the little robovacuum is in the room so that it doesn't touch me at all.